The Angel Children
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Charlotte M. Higgins >> The Angel Children
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THE OLD MAN'S STORY.
Come about me, little ones, and I will tell you my story. I seem old to
you now; but once I was as young as you. I had twelve brothers and
sisters; but now they are all gone before me into the better land, and I
remain here alone upon the earth without them.
I am very old. My teeth have fallen away from my mouth one by one, until
they are all gone. My bald head has a very few gray hairs; my ears are
deaf, so I can scarcely hear your young, sweet voices: and the bright
sky is dimmed to my eyes. Slowly my footsteps totter along the earth, as
when I first stepped into my mother's outstretched arms.
My wife long ago went before me to the grave, and I have left many
children there. Many a time have I seen the green sod laid over the
grave of loved ones. Often have I wept at the sight of God's servant,
Death; but when next he comes I shall hail him with joy, for he will be
to me the beloved friend who bears me to my home above.
Now that I am grown old, God lovingly carries me back to the days of my
childhood. He sends many a loving spirit upon the wings of consolation
to bear me into the fair region of youth. The scenes of the few years
since--all the noise and bustle of my manhood's prime--are banished far
away from me, and only the stillness and quiet of my childhood close
around the last moments of my earthly existence. Thus, dear children,
bathing me in the innocence and trustful spirit of my childhood, does
God prepare me for my home in his beautiful garden.
I told you I had twelve brothers and sisters. O, well do I recall them
all! They come near, and I feel their presence as of old! I am glad to
linger mostly on their early days; for, in after life, their hearts were
filled with sorrow, their fresh spirits wearied, and care brought and
filled their souls with other feelings than those of love and sympathy
to others.
Our fairest and brightest brother was Fred. I was only one year younger
than he, and I remember well how I watched my mother while she nursed
him, and sent me away from the arms which a little before had been my
sole possession. I could not understand it, and my little heart was
filled with dismay. I would creep away by myself, sit down, and in the
most pitiful manner repeat to myself, "Poor Sammy! poor Sammy!" The
sense of desolation was very great; and in the whole course of my life I
do not remember to have known a more distressing grief. When I grew to
be a man, and disappointments came upon me; when I laid my wife and
children in their graves, and knew there was not one left of my line but
myself--a miserable old man--there was hope in my sorrow, light in my
darkness; for I knew the love of God and the life of eternity. These
deep sorrows had, also, bright heights; but it was not so then. I could
not feel God's love. My mother's care had been all I knew; and, now that
it seemed given to another, I was alone and wretched. There was a
terrible sense of injustice, which nearly broke my heart. I could not
understand how my little brother could have the right to what was
denied me.
I have always tenderly pitied children who had griefs; then they need
our care more than the grown children, who feel God's love and wisdom.
But these little ones grope in a kind of darkness. Suffering is a
mystery to them; they can perceive no cause or end for it; they only
know they suffer.
After a while, I, too, was allowed to sit on my mother's lap with this
brother, and then I began to love him, he was _so_ beautiful. There was
no child in the county which could be compared with him, and, simply
because of his beauty and his cunning ways, he gained the power of a
king over the household, so that as soon as he began to run about he
ruled it, and me even more than the rest.
The country was very new then, and all the gay, flourishing towns and
villages, which are now scattered in every direction, scarcely existed
even in the minds of the first sanguine settlers. Dark woods and sombre
swamps covered the surface; and what do you think we had instead of
roads, when we wanted to go from one town to another? The first one who
found his way along cut pieces of bark out of the trees, and others
followed these marks, until after a time they cut down the trees and
made a road. I think this is the reason old roads in this country are so
crooked; for you know a man cannot walk very straight through a forest.
Our near neighbors lived a mile from us, and it was quite a little
journey to go and see them. We had a village, too, in which were but two
buildings, the meeting-house and blacksmith's shop. You children would
hardly think you could live in such a place; yet such was the state of
things ninety-three years ago.
Well, my father and mother had come up from a town near Boston, because
my grandfather could give them some land here, and they built their
house, and made it their home. The house stands now; it is the very one
in which my brothers and sisters were all born.
In her parlor my mother had a very nice piece of furniture, which her
mother had given her as a wedding present, and of which she was very
proud, inasmuch as no parlor in the county could boast the like. It was
a looking-glass!
Well, laugh! No wonder it seems funny to you that any one should so
prize a looking-glass, when you all have so many of them; but you can
have no idea how different everything was then. The people were very
poor, and, although they owned many acres of land, yet they could
frequently sell it but for one dollar an acre, and thought that a fine
bargain. You see we had no money to buy the elegant luxuries you have in
your houses--the carpets, and sofas, and rocking-chairs. Our floors were
hard, covered now and then with a little sand, perhaps, as a great
luxury. The chairs were straight and high, while our tables were small
and low, and the cups from which we drank our tea as small as those you
play with. But, before I say any more, I want to tell you of the fate of
mother's looking-glass.
The _great room_ (as mother's parlor was called) was always kept
carefully closed, and a very sacred, awful and mysterious place it was
to us children. It so happened, one day when mother had gone away, that
my little brother Fred began to be acted upon very powerfully by a
desire to take one peep into that room. By some strange neglect mother
had left the door unlatched--for she kept her bonnet in there, and
always put it on before the glass. The temptation to go in was
altogether too powerful for Fred to withstand, and, especially as others
had never pronounced the little monosyllable no, to him, he had no mind
to begin by saying it to himself. So in he went, and almost the first
thing he saw was mother's looking-glass, hanging over the table between
the two front windows. As he went towards it he saw a little boy, who
seemed to be peering and staring at him from between the windows. He had
no idea it was himself he saw, never having seen the looking-glass
before, nor his own reflected image. You may be sure he looked right
earnestly upon the strange child. If he stepped forward, so did the boy;
if he turned away, and then looked cautiously back to watch the boy,
there he was, looking at him in a very sly manner. Freddy, enraged at
this, rushed out for a stone, and, bringing it in, hurled it at the
looking-glass. But it was all in vain, for, even after the glass
rattled down and strewed the floor with its many pieces, that impudent
boy peeped at him from every bit of glass in which he looked.
When my mother came home, and went to put away her bonnet in the great
room, as usual, she found her beautiful looking-glass lying on the
floor, broken into a hundred pieces. When she came out, and demanded of
us what it meant, Fred told her of a little boy he saw behind it, at
whom he was offended and hurled a stone, but that still the boy looked
at him from the pieces of glass and made him very angry.
Then mother laughed when she heard Fred's story, and, catching him up in
her arms, kissed him again and again. She forgot to chide him for his
disobedience in going where he had been forbidden to go, and for his
foolish anger at the supposed boy. She was so much amused at his version
of the story, that she did not explain to him what the boy was, and how
the looking-glass reflected figures before it, but he was left to find
that out by his experience afterwards.
If my brother, long before that, had learned lessons of love and
forbearance, this circumstance, slight as it may seem, would never have
occurred. Instead of the threatening and distrustful look in the mirror,
he would have found a laughing face, and a tiny, loving hand would have
been given him. O, my dear children, this story has a higher meaning
than I thought of when I commenced! In the feelings of those whom we
approach we see the reflection of our own; if we approach any one with
love, it is given to us from them. Think of this: it will serve you
well, and teach you to be careful, ere you hurl the stone, to know what
is the object of your anger.
I have often thought that we all helped to make my brother selfish. He
was so very beautiful that we indulged him in every whim he had; so he
came to look upon us at last as bound to serve him. I do not blame him
only; they who had the nurturing of him, they to whom his young spirit
was sent so fair from God's heavenly gardens, in their unwise love
taught him to think of himself, and make others serve his purposes.
These dear, helpless little ones--they come to us in fresh beauty like a
spring morning, and we taint their spirits with selfishness, and darken
them with worldly care!
Years after, when my brother and myself had grown to men, we bound our
interests in one. He had quicker parts than I--was a much better
scholar; so I trusted all our business confidently in his hands. But I
grieve to say he did not meet my confidence with honor--he took from my
purse to enrich his own; and when I stood by his bedside, at last, and
saw how the deep wrinkles were worn in by care upon his once round
cheek, I wept. I wept that he should die without having found in life
that peace which any one would have predicted for him over his cradle,
when the rosy cheeks sank into the soft pillow, and the long lashes of
his baby eyelids rested upon them! I love that brother now, and his
child, who had become penniless after his death, I warmed in my
chimney-corner, and held to my heart as though she had been my own
child. Brother, I know thou hast repented, long ago, of the wrongs thou
didst inflict, and that some time, in the presence of God, I shall clasp
thee in my arms, pure again as when we sat together on our mother's
knee!
See how I have wandered away off from my story!
Let me tell you how we got our clothes. Did you ever ask yourself what
we could do then, when there were so few shops, and so little money to
carry to the shops?
We had sheep, who gave us wool, which my mother spun, and wove it into
cloth. Just think of that! Do you imagine you would have as fine
clothes, if your mothers had to spin all the cloth? She knit, too, O, so
fast! as well in the dark as the light. I have known her to knit a
coarse stocking easily of an evening--her fingers _flew_ along the
needles! Cotton cloth was a great rarity among us. I remember once my
mother had a cotton gown, and it was esteemed very precious.
Father made our shoes, and rough ones they were too, and which we only
wore in the coldest part of the winter. The long winter evenings were so
beautiful to us! Father taught us to read and spell, and chalked out
sums on the wall for us; then we would draw profiles on the wall, for
the great blaze of the wood-fire cast a bright light, and, consequently,
the shadow was well marked. A huge chimney-place we had, with a broad
hearth, and all about this would we sit, roasting apples and popping
corn by the heat of the fire.
So we lived; in the summer, playing "hi-spy" around the corners of the
barn, and, in the winter, living snugly in the chimney-corner, telling
stories.
When the revolutionary war broke out,--you've heard of that, of course;
but then I'm afraid you'll never know how much we endured then; our
feeling against the injustice of Mother England was very great. You do
not know how we had loved her, nor how we children used to listen to
stories of that beautiful country beyond the sea. Our father and mother
spoke of it as "Home," and we all hoped that some time, when we were men
and women, we might go "Home." Then, when she began to tax us for more
money than we were able to pay, in order to build grand palaces, it
seemed hard to us; and, even after we had remonstrated again and again,
she took no notice of our petitions. She laid a heavy tax on some little
comforts we had, such as _sugar_ and molasses; and then, when we refused
to buy them rather than pay the tax, she imposed a heavy tax on tea,
and sent a great deal of it here to force us to buy it. We wouldn't have
the tea, however, and you must have heard how a party of men, disguised
as Indians, threw it all into Boston harbor.
All these things seemed the more cruel because they came from "Home."
And, finally, worn out with the injustice constantly experienced at
their hands, we prepared to resist them by war.
The declaration of independence, which you celebrate every fourth of
July, was received with mingled emotions of joy and sorrow. It was
severing an old tie which had once been sweet; but yet it promised us,
through the doubtful conflict, freedom and independence.
How enthusiastic we children were! Father made us rude wooden guns; and
drilled us every morning, for no one knew how long the war would last;
but we were determined to conquer, even though our fathers died in the
war, and our children succeeded to it. I remember when the recruiting
army came round. I seized my gun, and manfully joined its ranks. But to
my dismay I was sent back; my wooden gun, and extreme youth, were
thought insufficient to meet the demands of a soldier's duty. I remember
well when the battle was fought on Bunker Hill. A great part of the town
was gathered upon a slight elevation, from which we could distinctly
hear the roaring of the cannons and the clashing of the artillery. It
was a terrible day! There was many a woman there who had a father or
husband in the battle; and, at each report which filled their ears, they
fancied they saw them falling before the foe, and trampled beneath the
feet of the conquerors.
Those were trying times. Children, I pray God you may never know such;
and you never can, for you will not struggle with poverty as we did.
When I look upon your happy faces, and see the satchel full of books on
your arm,--when I look in upon your happy homes, upon the career of
honor and usefulness before you in the future,--I am, by the strong
contrast, transported to those "trying times" when we lived in the cold
houses, and wore the coarse cloth; when we sacrificed the refinements of
knowledge, and the pleasures of luxury, to the bold struggle of liberty
against tyranny; when our hard-working mothers at home melted their
last pewter plate, that the guns should know no lack of bullets, and
sent all the little comforts of food and clothing they could find, to
bless the husbands and fathers toiling in the war; and when the fathers
fought with the fangs of thirst and hunger fast upon them, and leaving
behind them, upon the sharp ice, the traces of their footsteps, engraven
by their bleeding feet. Then, children, tears of joy and gratitude fill
my eyes; for we did not toil in vain. In you all do I behold the fruits
of our labor. We were ignorant, that you might be wise; poor, that you
might be rich; outlawed and disgraced, that you might build up a free
and generous nation. And, in reaping these privileges, do not forget the
old man, and the old woman, who, bowed and wrinkled with age, need your
kind hand. _We_ have given you these things gladly; and now, before we
go to our further toil in eternity, let us hear your blessed voices
speaking to us in kind tones of love; let us feel your young lips
pressed upon our old brows; let us clasp your little hands, and feel the
gladness with which your attentions come to us. And when you see an old
man, alone, with those of his generation passed away, treat him
tenderly. Guide his tottering footsteps, and bear with him when he is
slow; for he is waiting for the kind servant, Death. He is thinking of a
dear little girl, who, long ago, with her blue eyes and golden hair, her
light step and soft embrace, went up to live with the angels; and the
tears fall fast over his worn cheeks, as he remembers the lone place she
left in his heart, for she was the last thing which had been left him
from his broken family. Speak to the old man gently, for his heart is
often in converse with the beautiful past! Speak to him gently, for his
soul dwells among the angels of heaven!
A STORY OF THE CHRIST-CHILD.
In one of those tall, splendid houses, standing in proud streets, in
which some poor people imagine heaven to dwell, lived a little girl by
the name of Helen.
It was Christmas-day; and early in the morning did she jump from her
bed, and run to look at her stocking by the fireplace, where it was hung
that Santa Claus need not be troubled to hunt for it.
There it hung, filled full, and all about on the sides had fallen the
presents it was not large enough to hold. O, how quickly did she empty
its contents; and how delighted were her exclamations!
"A beautiful bracelet!" she said to herself, sitting down on the carpet
and drawing her little white feet under her; "just such a one, with the
opal stone, as I saw in the window, yesterday, when I went to walk with
mamma on Washington-street; and she sent me home, I know, so she could
buy it. O, and this beautiful book! how its edges shine! What pictures!
Let me see;--'From your affectionate father,'--I knew father gave me
that;--and see the pretty cushion, and the box, and the china cups and
plates for my doll; and O, a new silk dress for dolly, and something
little, away down!" continued Helen, drawing out her hand and peeping
into the little stocking; then, putting her hand back, drew out a pretty
ring for her finger. "If this is not nice! I never _did see_ anything so
pretty,--a ring and a bracelet! O, dear, dear! how happy I am!" She
actually danced about the room for joy; and, when Katie came to wash and
dress her, she scampered around and around her, for she could not keep
still.
There was ever so much candy too, and she wanted only to sit down and
eat it, unmindful of Katie's remonstrances.
She had been so delighted with her presents as almost to forget the
merry Christmas she was to bid her father and mother; and so, when she
went down stairs into the breakfast-room, where the hot rolls were
smoking, and the loving parents waiting, they had almost surprised her
with their wishes before she bethought herself.
Then she began to think of a party which was to be at her teacher's
house, and of the Christmas-tree and the Christ-child, which so many
children would go to see in their best frocks and best looks.
So, after the famous Christmas-dinner with its nice roast-meats, and
puddings, and pies,--after the game of romps with her father, and the
ride on the rocking-horse with her brother, who, at last, from mere
mischief, had tipped her off, and sent her crying to her mother,--she
began to think about going there. She had seen herself nicely arrayed in
the pretty plaid dress, with the ring on her finger, and the opal
bracelet on her arm, which she had found in her stocking that morning.
Then she bethought herself of how all the children were to bring a few
pieces of silver for an offering to the Christ-child, that it might be
sent off into distant lands to children who knew nothing of the blessed
Christ-child and the Christmas he brought.
It is true Helen had a bright box with a hole in the lid, through which
she had dropped many a bright piece of silver; and it is also true that
the box had a lock, and the key of the lock lay quietly in one of
Helen's drawers; but the money there was destined to some very great and
vague purpose; and she never would have dreamed of unlocking the box and
taking from it any silver for the Christ-child. She knew well enough
papa would give her money for that purpose. So to papa she went, and
told him what she wanted; and he, proud that his little girl should
carry as much as others whom she would meet there, gave her a beautiful
gold piece of money--a veritable five dollars!
Then did Helen speed along with exultation in her heart--exultation for
the gold in her tiny pocket, and exultation in the very bright dress,
quilted pink bonnet, and pretty white furs. And she was so often
thinking, "What will Mary say when she sees this?" Not once did Helen
ask herself what the Christ-child, or he whom the Christ-child
represented, the Saviour in heaven would say to the gold she brought.
Poor Helen!
She was not bringing the gold for the children so far away. She was
bringing it because the others would bring some, and she wanted hers
seen of them!
* * * *
Away down in an obscure street, where you would not look for anything
kind or beautiful, lived a brother and sister, who made each other very
happy in their love. Their names were Johnny and Susan. Johnny was a
lame, sick boy, who could not run out of doors and play like other
children. It was Christmas morning there too, even, and early had Susan,
his sister, awoke to think of the pleasant visit she should make in the
afternoon at her teacher's house; and she had even stolen from her bed
up to Johnny's bedside to see if he, too, was awake; and when she saw
that he was awake and his countenance thoughtful, they began to talk
together about the day's pleasure, and how Susan was to remember
everything to tell it over by night to Johnny.
"O," said Susan, "to think how beautiful it will be, and I never in a
fine house before, and the two sixpences we have earned this week! How
glad shall I be to put them in my teacher's hand! Johnny dear," said
the little Susan, looking tenderly on her poor brother, "do you not
think you need the sixpence yourself? I could buy you a sweet orange, or
something nice for you to eat, it is so long since you had anything but
bread and water."
"No," said Johnny, "I'd rather much give it to the Christ-child. I love
to lie here and think about it, and of those children so far away, who
will be glad when they, too, know of this beautiful day. I think of them
so much that I love them, Susan, and I wish I had more than the sixpence
to send them."
Susan busied herself in preparing the breakfast of bread and water, and
then, when it was over and the work done up, she sat down by the side of
Johnny's bed, and read to him out of the little book she had brought
from her Sunday-school; and Johnny forgot, in the quiet peace of the
day, how hard it was to lie still upon the bed, when he so often longed
to run out and play; thoughts of love came into his heart, and tears of
gentleness into his eyes.
Their dinner was very different from the one Helen had eaten; but they
were happy, their hearts were full of expectation,--and Susan had got
herself quite ready, and, wrapping the two pieces of silver in a piece
of paper, she kissed Johnny, and set off on her way to the teacher's
house.
But when Susan came among the children there, somehow they all shunned
her. In their plays, if they had occasion to speak to her, they passed
on quickly, with a suppressed smile and hurried glance on each other.
If, by any means, she spoke to them, they looked upon her in
astonishment, without answering her words. They often whispered one to
another, casting curious looks upon her; so she knew easily they spoke
of her. What could it mean? What had she done?
I cannot answer this well. She had a gentle, sweet face; her manners
were neither rude nor obtrusive, and when she spoke, though her tones
were low, half fearful and trembling, still were her words as kind and
polite, if not kinder and politer, than those of the other children.
Poor Susan! and she had thought to be so happy that afternoon; she had
anticipated only kindly faces, and loving glances, and kind hands
stretched out to her in the plays. For once she had thought to mingle
with those pretty children as if they had been her sisters, and, when
she went back to dear Johnny, to tell him of their loving words. But
now--what! could she tell Johnny, to grieve him, of the sad afternoon
she was passing? She looked upon them more closely, trying to find out
what it was that separated her from them. 'Tis true she wore no bright
plaid dress and delicate cloth boots; she wore no bracelets on her arm;
she had not found them in her stocking that morning. There was no
necklace about her neck; her hair was not bright and curling; yet,
still, what could be the reason they shunned her so?
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